The Circles had been shattered. Evermeet's unique magic was gone.

For nearly five days the battle for the elven homeland had raged. Armies of monsters had arisen from the sea and descended from the skies, human wizards of unspeakable power had challenged the Weave of elven magic, ships bearing mounted warriors had swept in upon the island from every side. Worse, creatures from Below had found a path to the island, had sullied the haven that was Evermeet, and had slain many of the island's best defenders. Although the besieged People were unspeakably weary, they had not grown dispirited.

But this blow was surely more than they could bear.

Moving as if in a dream, Queen Amlaruil rose from her throne and made her way over to the open window. Below her was laid out a strange tableau: The teeming streets of Leuthilspar, which moments before had been alive with elven warriors rallying in response to yet another threat from the coast, were utterly silent. The elves stood motionless, frozen in a paroxysm of anguish.

Amlaruil lifted her eyes toward the north. Far away, in the deepest and most ancient forests of Evermeet, the twin spires of the Towers of the Sun and the Moon had reached to the sky. Now they were gone, and the High Magi of Evermeet with them. Amlaruil allowed herself a moment's grief for the loss of friends she had cherished for centuries.

The queen turned to her advisors, who for once were beyond speech. All of them knew what this meant. The only thing that could possibly destroy the Towers was another powerful circle of High Magi. And in these days of diminished power and fading magic, only on Evermeet could such magic be cast. Beset on all sides by invaders, they had nevertheless stood firm. The devastating blow, the only one for which they had not prepared, was this betrayal from within.

Finally Zaltarish, the queen's ancient scribe, gave words to the tragedy.

"Evermeet is lost, your Majesty," he whispered. "The twilight of the elves has come." Book One

The Fabric of Legend

"If ye ask my advice-and ye have-I'd say to give over this task to thine Uncle Khelben. Of the two of ye, he's the more deserving of it. But since ye don't seem the vengeful sort, ye might as well start this tale at the beginning. It seems to me ye can not tell the story of the elven People without speaking of the gods. Indeed, I've known many the elf who'd have ye believe there's little difference between him and them."

– excerpt from a letter from Elminster of Shadowdale

The Godswars

Before time began, before the fabled realm known as Faerie began its descent toward twilight, there was Olympus.

Home of the gods, Olympus was a vast and wondrous place. Here were limpid seas from whose depths sprang new life-beings who would in time find homes upon the infant worlds awakening beneath a thousand suns. Here lay verdant meadows as whimsically fertile as the minds of the gods who walked upon them, and gardens like vast and glorious sunsets. Here was Arvandor, the forest home of the elven gods.

It was to Arvandor that he fled now, wounded and heartsick, and as near to death as ever an elven god had come.

He was Corellon Larethian, the leader of the elven pantheon. Lithe and golden was he, and beautiful despite the ravages of battle. Though gravely wounded, he ran with a grace and speed that a mountain cat might envy. But the elf lord's face was taut with frustration, and one hand was clenched around the empty scabbard on his hip.

Corellon was a warrior-the father of all elven warriors-and he wanted nothing more than to stand and see the battle through to its conclusion. But his weapon was shattered, and he was bound by honor not to use his godly magic against his foe. There was no choice but retreat, for if Corellon fell-Corellon, the essence of elven strength and magic and beauty-then the destruction of the elven People seemed assured.

He took some comfort from the knowledge that for each drop of blood he spilled an elven child would be born. Thus had it been many times before: This was not his first battle with Gruumsh. He suspected that it would not be his last.

Since dawn had the battle raged, and now dusk was drawing near. All but deafened by the pounding of his own heart, the elf lord faltered to a stop and looked about for a place where he might take a moment's rest and shelter. Such places were scarce on the Moor, a place of endlessly rolling hills, shallow seas of peat, and a few stubborn trees. One tree huddled nearby-a low, gnarled cypress whose twisted and thinly leaved branches swept down to touch the ground.

Corellon ducked into the meager shade and sank down to rest. Even as he did so, his eyes swept the hills and he mapped out plans for a battle that might yet overtake him. He acknowledged that the Moor was not without a certain austere beauty; even so, it was hardly the place for an elven god. Corellon was outside his element, and well he knew it.

Olympus knew no finite boundaries, and within it were lands that defined paradise for many, many peoples. This place had been chosen as a courtesy to another god, one with whom Corellon had sought parlay: Gruumsh, the First Power of the orcish gods.

Gruumsh was at home in the wild moors, hills, and mountains of a hundred worlds. Although the orc lord could never have defeated his elven counterpart amid the trees of Arvandor, here the advantage was his. The familiar setting had apparently emboldened him. From his first strike, Gruumsh had seemed more confident, more grimly determined, than ever before. He came on still in swift and dogged pursuit of the elven god.

Corellon's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of his foe cresting a distant hill. Taller by half than any of the Moor's gnarled trees, Gruumsh was corded with muscle and armored with a gray hide nearly as tough as elven mail. His bearlike snout twitched as he scented the air for the passing of the elf lord, and his iron spear bounced on his shoulder as he strode along. The bestial god bled nearly as profusely as did Corellon, for the battle between them had been long and fierce. The difference between them was that the orc lord still held his weapons, while Corellon's sword lay in scattered shards among the heather.

As he watched the orcish god's approach, Corellon understood for the first time the depth of his own folly. He had asked Gruumsh to come to Olympus so that they might discuss an end to the destructive war between Gruumsh's orcs and the elven children of Corellon-a war that was threatening to shred the very fabric of the ancient realm of Faerie. Corellon had invited, and Gruumsh had accepted.

Accepted, and then betrayed.

The elf lord blamed himself. Although he would have liked to claim that he'd treated Gruumsh as an honorable foe, offering good faith and expecting it in return, he had not been particularly surprised when the orc lord broke truce. In truth, Corellon had been willing to surrender nearly every advantage because it had never occurred to him that he might lose a fight.

He was proud, perhaps too proud, as were his elven children. Corellon had reason to know the cunning and battle fury of his orcish adversary, but he had trusted in his superior agility and in Sahandrian, his marvelous sword. Even now he could not fathom how the orcish god had managed to shear through Sahandrian's magic and metal with naught but a rusty, one-handed axe.

Treachery, Corellon concluded grimly. There was no other explanation, for Sahandrian was far more than a common sword. It was Corellon's own work-he had lavished untold centuries upon the crafting and enchanting of it. Nor was he the only god who'd had a hand in its creation. Sehanine Moonbow, the elven goddess of moonlight and mysteries, had bound moon magic into the shining blade. Since beauty has a power of its own, Hanali Celanil had made of the sword's hilt a work of art replete with gems and intricate carvings. Upon the blade she had etched runes that portrayed-and perhaps captured-the enduring strength of elven love. His beloved Araushnee, the patron goddess of artisans and the goddess of elven destiny, had woven with her own hands the intricately designed silken sheath that padded Corellon's scabbard and warded him with a web of magic.